Sapphistry: In Praise of The Feminine
We seek to be with – and to love – girls and women because they are feminine; because they are not men. We desire girls, and women, because we like, we love, we enjoy, their delicate softness – the touch, the taste of their lips; the smell of their breath, their body; the warm softness of their breasts and of their arms as they embrace us and hold us close. We love, we enjoy, their very femininity; that which makes them female.
We love the way they laugh, and how they smile, the very way they look. We love, we desire, them because they are like us – because they know our pain, our vanity, our weakness, our needs, our insecurities and our worries; and because we can share our innermost secrets with them.
We love them, we desire them, because they are not men. For we do not seek to find in them, these our soft feminine lovers, these our friends, what makes a man a man, and while we may sometimes, or rarely, like a man, and may even have them as a friend, we shy away from intimacy with them because of their very manliness; because of that very harshness and often egotistical strength that makes, and marks them as, a man.
Thus do we have no time for those women who profess to be of our kind but who imitate, or who want to be like, or who even may dress like or may even be, inside, like a man. For they, such women, are not feminine enough, for us; as often – these days – some such women adopt our life as some political role, as some kind of rebellion against the status quo.
It is this very status quo – this masculine, paternalistic status quo – that has compelled us, generation after generation, for century upon century, to hide ourselves away; to often be a deep well of loneliness, until, perchance, we chance upon someone like us whom we love and whom we may gently coax to love us, to share the joys of such a gentle intimate sharing that most men – perhaps nearly all men – will never know.
For is the gentle touch of a woman that we desire, that we need. Her delicate, soft, kiss. The very delicate softness of her body, and the very way she may lie in our arms for hours when an impatient man – his sexual often only animal appetite fulfilled – would leave us, alone, as off he went again to some work, to some hobby, to some new interest, or to chase some new desire.
Hence it is that our very way of loving, of desiring, marks our esoteric manner of doing things. There is, then, for us – for those of our kind – that feminine empathy, that fore-seeing, that intuitive wyrdful knowledge, that marks us, so that our Rites are feminine, also. A gentle flowing dance, perhaps, where bodies softly touch, to music. Some spell chanted as we share with our lover the delights of our flesh, naked body to naked body as moonclad under the stars of night, or within some warm and scented room, we, by touch or kiss, bring ourselves to spasm after spasm of joy such as a man may never know.
Even our curses are gentle affairs of mind, body, and heart – as if we have sent forth some Nightingale of Death to carry our message and our meaning as some gentle, beautiful, haunting, yet deadly, song – so that our victims expire as they feel that beauty, that softness, within us, and only too late, far too late, know their lives for the strident wrongness it has been. Death, revenge, enwrapped within a subtle softness and a feminine beauty.
We seduce; we do not, like men, rant and rave. We enchant, with body, dress, perfume, movement, eyes; we do not demand or take by force, for we have no need to. We are subtle, yet strong; we do not make some show of or boast about our prowess, but veil it. For we are what we are, the very embodiment of, the very essence of, woman, and the opposite of present day, and former, men.
Often, there are no need for words; for the verbal diarrhoea of words that men often seem to send forth, pleased as they, the men, often seem to be with their own harsh barking barbaric voices. No, for us there is often and instead that wordless sharing when eyes meet, fingers lightly touch, and the essence of what makes us female seeps out to touch another of our kind, as perfume seeps away from where we placed it on our delicate wrists, or behind the soft lobes of our ears.
We love, we enjoy, delicate softness. We love Nature as She herself is and as we find Her. We do not desire, as men, to decimate and destroy Her, to dominate Her. Instead, we empathize; we love; we leave Her alone in our reverence, as we tend to try to leave the world of men alone until some harshness or some wrong afflicts or harms us, and then, then indeed there is no subtle, no more gentle, more dangerous and more deadly passion than us, than our Sapphic and darkly sinister kind, awakened and so empathically aroused.
Sister Morgan
Dark Daughters of Chaos
